


Regeneration

by Trobadora



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s06e06 The Almost People, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never underestimate the power of a Time Lord mind. - At the end of <i>The Almost People</i>, the Doctor's ganger dissolves. This is what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Divergence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/gifts).



> I owe the inspiration for this story solely to the gorgeous [dwsanta gift](http://joking.livejournal.com/115878.html) I got this year from the fabulous [joking](http://joking.livejournal.com/).

Jennifer - what Jennifer's become, what she's twisted her Flesh into - lunges at them.

He and Cleaves hold on to the sonic screwdriver.

"Geronimo!" he shouts, and sets it off.

Jennifer's contorted form explodes, and with the same sonic burst, Cleaves's Flesh and his own lose coherence, melt apart. With the Flesh, consciousness dissolves, flows apart into nothing.

Only a puddle on the floor remains. Nothing.

~*~

Empty corridors, dark and damp, spattered with liquefied biomatter, acid pooling in corners. The whole island is dead. Nothing will happen, can happen here. The stage is empty, the actors ... dissolved.

Then it sparks: A tiny flicker over the dead Flesh. Another.

Then, a small shower, sputtering sparks, there and not. A twitch underneath, a hint of movement. More sparks, and then ...

Then, golden energy bursts forth like a fountain, blinding and hot, drenching everything in its light, in its power. It breathes life. The Flesh flows together - it contorts, twists and shapes itself, animated by the golden light. It flows into the curve of a spine, the smoothness of a shaven head bowing over knobbly knees, into hands clenching into fists: the shape of a man, nude and shivering, a fine sheen of sweat on his dark skin.

He lifts his head, coughs another burst of golden sparks, contemplates his fingers in their brief light. In the dark, he runs a hand over his face, then grimaces against his palm, feeling full lips and high cheekbones, a scratchy chin and the fascinating movement of his jaw as he experimentally moves it up and down, and sideways as far as it will go.

He coughs again. The spark of light is dimmer this time. It's dark in here, even to his eyes, which are more adaptable to different light levels than human eyes would be, but he can see his sonic screwdriver on the floor next to him. There's no light. It'll need fixing, but that should be no trouble with a few simple tools. He picks it up with his left hand, then clears his throat: time to try his voice.

"Time Lord mind. Right," he explains to no one in particular, and then tilts his head, contemplating the sound of his voice. A baritone, smooth beneath the scratchy post-regeneration roughness. "Poor Cleaves," he adds. Crisp vowels, clear enunciation. Hmmm.

He shrugs, then pauses immediately to repeat the movement, familiarising himself with his shoulders. Bows his head slightly, smiles at himself. With a finger he traces the curve of his lips. Ganger or no, his Time Lord mind has impressed itself on the Flesh, strong enough to last even as it was dissolved. He regenerated. He is a Time Lord. He is the Doctor.

The Doctor without the TARDIS.

There's all the universe out there, but first he'll have to find a way to get there.

Ah, well. There are other ways to travel. Everything is wide open. Only the familiar paths are closed.

He shrugs again, the movement casual, no longer new. Slowly, awkwardly, he gets to his feet, avoiding the acid pooling nearby.

"First priority," the Doctor announces to the empty cavern with a lift of almost-already-familiar eyebrows, "new clothes. And then, the universe!"

~*~

The Doctor leans against the wooden door casually, his chin resting on his breast bone, his eyelids lowered. Through thin slits he keeps watch, his sonic screwdriver a comforting pressure at the small of his back where it's wedged into the waistband of his trousers. It won't be long.

He'd made his way here steadily, directly, only pausing along the way to stop a minor Rutan incursion and help a trio of panicked Stolian parents find their runaway teenage son. Oh, and that business with the hallucinogenic alien aphrodisiac - _not_ a good combination, that! - which some genius had sneaked out of Area 52. Small-time stuff, nothing of consequence. And here he is now.

Quick, energetic steps, the rustle and swirl of heavy wool - a moment later, Jack Harkness strides around the corner and slows down, eyeing the stranger at his door with an expression that's half suspicion, half appreciation. A grin expands across Jack's face as Jack's eyes sweep, with obvious deliberation, up and down his visitor's body.

The Doctor doesn't show that he's affected, but he'd have to be completely dead to at least half his senses not to be.

"I wasn't expecting guests," Jack says, "but I always make exceptions for the right person. Are you?" The look in those blue eyes is positively wicked.

The Doctor pushes himself off the door with his shoulder blades. "You tell me, Jack," he says, dropping his voice to a deeper register, and meets Jack's smouldering gaze head-on.

It only takes a moment, then Jack's eyes switch from suspicious flirtation to friendly flirtation, with a brief detour through pure delight somewhere in between. Then, Jack fakes a groan and presses a hand against his chest in mock disappointment. "You. Shame."

He nods. "Me." He is himself, at least; that's the one thing he can always be sure of.

"Doctor," Jack says, warmly. "You regenerated again." There's regret under the pleasure of recognition.

"In a way." He waves his hand in dismissal and adds brightly, "Long story. Best told over a drink. What say you?"

There's a slow-burning heat in Jack' grin, very real beneath his casual flirtation and the bone-deep knowledge that flirtation is as far as this'll ever go. Twin Time Lord hearts clench at the sight. "I'll buy you a drink any time, Doctor."

~*~

It's a little weird to be sitting here in Jack's house, a martini glass in hand, with Jack beside him. A little too strangely domestic. At least they're not sitting at the kitchen table; that might have been overkill. No; Jack has an actual, genuine bar along one wall of his living room, complete with barstools and a mirrored wall with shelves stacked with bottles from different countries, decades, and - in at least three clearly visible cases - planets. It seems Jack entertains quite a bit in this century.

Good. Jack's not the kind of man who should be lonely.

And barstools are infinitely preferable to kitchen chairs or sofas, never mind that they're less comfortable. Much better message all around.

The Doctor studies the image they make in the mirror, around and between and beside the bottles on the wall: Jack, looking as he always does when he ditches his World War II coat, antiquated braces and all, and beside Jack he himself, almost half a head shorter this time round, dark-skinned and slender in his dark trousers and the white shirt he'd finally settled on, with sharp, distinctive features, close-cropped hair - he'd decided he preferred that to the fully-shaved version, all in all - and a wide smile. He looks a decade or two older than Jack, too, though what the real age difference is even a Time Lord's senses can't easily tell. Convoluted, twisty timelines and all that.

In the mirror, he can watch Jack eyeing him appreciatively again. "Lookin' good, Doc."

There can be no doubt that that opinion is genuine, the Doctor muses. "Improvement over the last one, you think?"

"And no bow tie."

"Hey!" The Doctor isn't sure whether to pout or scowl, and tries both in quick succession. "Bow ties are still cool." Jack snorts, but doesn't comment. One of these days the Doctor'll manage to convince someone else of the innate coolness of bow ties. He's sure any of his incarnations would have agreed. "Although maybe you preferred me the way I was when we met," he adds after a moment. "Jumpers and ears and all."

Jack's expression turns wistful for a moment. "I still miss that you sometimes."

He does? The Doctor tilts his head. "Didn't go anywhere, did I?"

Jack mock-pouts at him. "You lost the ears, though. Damn shame."

"Always knew you only wanted me for my ears."

"Well, you know what they say about the size of a man's ears ..."

They are wearing matching grins now.

"And still you never so much as bought me a drink," the Doctor complains, miming deep sorrow. "I'm wounded, I am."

Jack lifts his glass and clinks it against the Doctor's demonstratively, and they simply sit and grin at each other for a long moment. Then the Doctor turns serious.

"As much fun as this is ... _not_ , I'm actually here for a reason."

Jack nods, resigned amusement in his expression. He's got the Doctor's measure, all right - he always knew better than to think this a social call. "So, what brings you to my door?" he asks eventually, quietly.

"Well ..." The Doctor makes an amused gesture with one hand, lets the corner of his mouth quirk upward a bit. "I'm in a bit of a pickle, as they say. Up for giving me a hand?"

Jack, predictably, waggles his eyebrows. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

The Doctor laughs, under his breath but genuinely pleased nonetheless. He's seen Jack in many moods, in many frames of mind, and this is the one he infinitely prefers. Here and now, it seems, Jack is genuinely content and happy with his life. A rare condition for an immortal, perhaps, but all the more to be treasured.

He promises himself he won't do anything that might jeopardise it.

"Borrow your Vortex Manipulator?" he asks lightly.

Jack's eyebrows shoot up, and his expression grows concerned. "You've lost the TARDIS?"

"No, no - I'm still in her." His other self was. Almost the same thing.

"Time loop?"

"Not quite." He hesitates. The last version of him wouldn't have told Jack the truth. He'd have talked, and talked, and talked, swerving wildly from subject to subject without ever actually said anything, the master of dissimulation. The one before that ... he'd have talked too, but in a different manner, either maniacally cheerful or deathly intent and either way too self-absorbed, and in the end he'd have simply demanded Jack's cooperation without necessarily offering any explanation in return. (Jack, of course, would have gone along. That was Jack.)

And the man he'd been before _that_ , the one Jack said he still missed sometimes ... yes, that man _would_ have told Jack the truth. He'd have thrown it out as a challenge, wielding his own vulnerability like a blade.

Who is he, now that he is no longer any of these men? He hasn't had much time to get to know himself yet.

Ah well, it'll come.

"You heard about the upset with the gangers, on that island?" the Doctor asks, eventually. It's been weeks now, and the whole thing has been all over the news. Well, some version of it, at any rate. "It was coming, of course - you must have known that, living in this century. Paid attention to your history lessons?"

Jack merely nods, making an impatient gesture. His eyes have turned speculative. He's catching on. Smart boy.

The Doctor gazes into Jack's eyes, recognising the recognition. "Yes," he says, simply. "I'm a ganger. Or I started that way, anyway. Then I died."

"And regenerated."

He nods. "Never underestimate the power of a Time Lord mind." A wry smile. "I scrounged clothes from the workers' closets, placed a call. Bit of computer manipulation with the trusty sonic did the rest. Passed myself off as a journalist, and with the whole upset over the Flesh no one really wanted to antagonise me further, so I got out no problem." He can't help but flash an ironic grin at himself in the mirror: teamwork, even when the Doctor in the TARDIS doesn't know his other self still exists. Neat. "They did do all sorts of tests to check I wasn't Flesh myself after all, but all they proved was that regeneration energy is as good as the TARDIS's own when it comes to stabilising a ganger."

Jack nods, understanding the process, of course. The Doctor smiles. Sometimes it's nice talking to someone whose technical expertise requires few explanations. And then again, sometimes the explanations are half the fun.

Either way, he is Time Lord fully and completely now, not in mind only as before. He's still not certain how he feels about it: there are two Time Lords left now, but they are both him.

Never mind that his other self is a regeneration behind him, never mind that circumstances may mean that version of him will never regenerate into _this_ particular shape: they are still the same. He's the Doctor. And _he_ is the Doctor, too. Rather excellent, really, for him - but for the second Time Lord in all of creation, he'd still rather have chosen someone else.

Well. Nothing to be done about it.

Jack leans forward a little. "And what about him? The Doctor. Well," he corrects himself, "the other Doctor."

Something in the Doctor's chest contracts. Just like that. Only Jack could simply take the idea of two Doctors in stride, never mind how it came along.

"Left before," he explains.

"You're looking to get back to the TARDIS, then?"

The Doctor eyes Jack consideringly. "I thought about it. Perhaps not. Brilliant as it is working with myself." He flashes Jack a quick grin. "I'm not entirely sure. New me, you see - I still need to find out who I am now." He looks away. "Some might say I'm not actually the Doctor."

Jack's snort is instant, dismissive. "The hell you're not."

It gladdens his hearts. Later, he'll tell himself that's what made him reach out, what made him put his hand over Jack's, draw closer to him until he can feel the warmth of his body.

Yes, only that, of course. Self-delusion is a game he's very adept at; he's not about to give it up at this late date.

Jack looks down at their hands in bemusement. From someone else, this might mean nothing. But from the Doctor? Oh yes, Jack knows him well.

"Well?" the Doctor asks, impatient. "How about it? We'll never get anywhere if you just sit there and look."

Jack blinks, and does a rather entertaining double take as he suddenly seems to realise the offer is serious. "Doctor ..." he says, a small, helpless laugh in his voice. "Only you."

He furrows his brow, tilts his head at Jack. "Only me what? Besides, even if that were true, there's two of me now, you know."

Jack's eyes turn speculative; his smile becomes a smirk. "I hadn't forgotten."

"Oh, stop it. One thing at a time, Captain."

Jack appraises him seriously, then purses his lips. There's a challenge in his eyes. Slowly, very slowly, he undoes the leather strap of his Vortex Manipulator and lifts it from his wrist, holds it out to the Doctor.

The Doctor raises his eyebrows, but takes it and fixes it around his own wrist - the right one; not that he's left-handed, more like ambidextrous, but still it seems better that way. All without breaking the lock their eyes have on each other. "Thank you," he says, a deliberate, ironic tinge in his voice. "But that wasn't actually what I meant. You're usually quicker than this."

Jack breaks away from his eyes after all and looks down for an instant, then glances up, wry mischief in the blue of his gaze. "Would you hold it against me if I said I trust you more when you have a way out?"

The Doctor snorts, mimes a bow to acknowledge the distinct touch, and hops down from his barstool, holding out a hand. "Well?"

Jack slides off his own stool. He takes the Doctor's hand and pulls him in, slowly, slowly. Mmm, kissing with new lips. The verdict so far: excellent. But that may just be Jack. "Kissing's good," he breathes into Jack's ear, then bites his earlobe for emphasis. "But you want me to fuck you, don't you?"

A sharp intake of breath, and Jack's hips surge against him. Oh yes, Jack wants. And he wants, too. Well, _that_ isn't new. For some reason, this time it seems right to act on it.

New man again, in more ways than one.

_Good._

~*~

He does fuck Jack, slow and lazy, on Jack's extravagant four-poster bed, Jack on knees and elbows before him, the curve of his spine a sinful temptation. He presses kisses against Jack's skin, circles the bumps of Jack's spine with his tongue. His hips thrust lazily as he curls hand around Jack's cock, just holding it, closely, intimately. Every small thrust of his hips drives Jack's cock forward in this fist, a hot slide of skin against skin. He's stretching this out, he realises, for his own sake as much as for Jack's. It's a memory that will be their own, separate from the ones they share with his other self, and he wants to savour every moment.

The Doctor smiles at the back of Jack's head, at the dark shadow of his own hand curled around Jack's shoulder.

~*~

Afterwards, he pulls his sonic screwdriver from the pile of clothes and points it at the Vortex Manipulator around his wrist. Jack watches him lazily, and keeps watching as he slowly puts on his discarded clothes. Neither of them say anything.

Then he's standing next to Jack's bed, fully clothed, entering coordinates for a simple, straightforward time jump. Earth, 57th century. That should be about right.

The Doctor looks at Jack again, lounging naked on the bed before him, then at the device on his wrist. Oh, to hell with it. He owes the man, after all. He sits on the bed, and watches Jack's eyes snap fully open.

He leans forward. "I'll bring it back," he promises, quietly, and presses a kiss against Jack's shoulder. And with the sensation of Jack's skin on his lips, the sight of his startled expression burned into his eyes, he activates the Vortex Manipulator and is gone, away, out into the universe where he belongs.

~*~

_to be continued ..._


	2. Intersections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The universe is large and beautiful, and he can be anywhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me so long to come back to this!

57th century Rome smells of sun and old stone. The Doctor turns a corner and strides straight up to the quaint old shop in the alley, and through its outdated two-phase door. It's set to permeable during opening hours, of course, though the Doctor knows well there are people who would find it closed to them no matter the time. The being behind the counter looks up, then stands and straightens its apron, pushes its microgoggles up above its faceted eyes and breaks into a series of clicks and rustles, its antennae quivering with affable excitement.

The Doctor feels a corner of his mouth turn down. Mandibles clicking, membranes rustling: without the TARDIS's translation field, all he can hear is Hrsfl's real voice; all Hrsfl will hear is his. No convenient translation here. He misses the TARDIS's presence in his mind more than anything. 

"I'm sorry, old friend," the Doctor says in local Anglish, which he knows Hrsfl understands, and tells himself firmly this is no time to be maudlin. A bit of bilingual conversation never hurt anyone. "I'm afraid the old telepathic field isn't around right now, and my vocal apparatus isn't suited for your language."

Hrsfl tilts its head. Like eighty percent of its species, it's a neuter - what less enlightened beings might call a work drone, and among the Ssdtk is called a culture-maker. It clicks a few rapid-fire questions at him, until the Doctor holds up his hands, not blocking but wide open, inviting. "One thing at a time! What say we do business first, and I'll tell you a bit of a story afterwards?"

~*~

When he leaves Hrsfl's shop later - much later; they've managed to drift from the Doctor's own news to Hrsfl's clutchmates to a dozen other things - he is wearing a wide smile and a shiny new silver band around his right wrist, right below Jack's trusty leather.

A 56th century Kalidian Vortex Manipulator - much more advanced than the Time Agency's clunky 51st century models. It does pay to know people. 

The Doctor looks at the two bands around his wrist, and his smile contracts. He runs a hand over the leather. He really should ...

Well. Maybe one trip first.

He sets his new Vortex Manipulator at random and slips smoothly into the Vortex.

~*~

Anywhere, any time. The universe is large, and most of it is empty. He trudges through sand dunes under a burning blue sun, looks at the brilliantly lit sky on a planet in the M13 globular cluster - thousands of suns, almost as bright as day even in planetary night. He strolls through the dark red grass of Hanidia IV and the wide avenues of the orbital cities of Thrun. He quickly vortexes out of some place with gravity too high for comfort, finds an underwater dome populated by plant intelligences - whose name is a chemical released into the air, untranslatable perhaps even for the TARDIS.

The universe is large and beautiful, and he can be anywhere. 

It's boring as hell. 

The Doctor knows the places where there's always something going on, of course, but he keeps going without aim, a morning here, an evening there. On Paa'alliy, he follows the twin sunsets, watching them all the way around the globe.

If he tries, he always knows where he is, when he is. The universe is vast, and even a Time Lord can't know the half of it, but there's a fixed point at its centre and its heart, something so absolute his mind still shies away from it. Something that will never not be. The Doctor tries not to think about it too much, but when he does, more and more often he thinks not "wrong", but simply "Jack".

He's not surprised when he ends up in the Gamma Forests - nothing ever happens there. He looks up into the trees - long, long trunks with no branches and no leaves; they'd look dead to someone who couldn't feel the life in them - and doesn't admit to himself how weary he feels.

He misses the TARDIS like a missing limb, phantom pain included. She's been a part of his life, a part of him, for so long - does he even still know how to be without her? Without her taking him wherever he's needed? He's not had to do without her since his first incarnation, since they took one look at each other and fell in love, ran away together. Since he stole her, and she stole him.

There's only the one river here, of course, and he strolls along, fingering the leather band around his wrist. He's been using the Kalidian, naturally, but it's always the leather band he touches first.

No, he won't seek her out, his TARDIS - though she's his as much as the other's, that much he knows in his bones. He won't. There's already a Doctor in the TARDIS, and that's quite enough. Besides, his other self has enough on hand with Amy's kidnapping. Maybe he could ... _No._ He puts the thought aside. That's not for him to take care of, now. He has a good idea what his other self is planning, and they can't be getting in each other's way.

He's so lost in his thoughts, he doesn't see the girl until he nearly trips over her. She's perhaps ten, short-haired and wide-eyed, and she lowers the hyperspanner in her hand with suspicion on her face. She's been sitting by the river repairing her broken hovermodule, it seems.

"Hello!" he says brightly and crouches down so he's not quite so much looming over her. "Did your hover break down? Maybe I can help."

She pulls the module closer to her. "Who are you? I've never seen you before." And of course the Gamma Forests don't exactly get strangers visiting all that often.

"Just passing through," the Doctor says, with a smile he doesn't entirely feel. He pulls out his sonic screwdriver and quickly passes it over the hover. Ah, right. Just slipped out of phase, not really broken. "I can tune this for you," he says, and does before she can object.

She quickly checks it over, and her eyes widen when she realises it's perfectly attuned to the local gravity field again. It earns him a cautious smile as she reattaches the module to her belt.

"Thank you," she says solemnly and gets to her feet.

He rises as well. "Your settlement's that-a-way, yes?" He gestures along the river, and she nods. "I'll visit, I think. What say you travel ahead and let them know?" 

She nods. "I'm Lorna. What is your name?"

"I'm -" Some metres away, one of the trunk-trees explodes, and for a moment he's stunned. Then a genuine smile breaks out on his face, and he looks down at the girl. "Lorna?" He holds out his hand. "Run!"

~*~

One thwarted attempt to terrify the Gamma Forests out of their Heaven-neutral stance later - bioterrorism, really? the Doctor doesn't regret at all that some of the last explosions took rather a chunk out of certain individuals - the Doctor stands on the observation deck of a Judoon ship, watching the Gamma Forests grow smaller in the distance.

Little Lorna had proved pretty resourceful, and taken to the crisis with boundless energy - she'd have enjoyed travelling. Seeing the universe. Through her eyes, even the rather pedestrian exploding trees were an adventure. But he couldn't have taken her with him.

He couldn't. There's no TARDIS, no safe place - this is no life to be pulling someone else into. The Doctor rubs his fingers against the leather around his wrist, unsettled. He has always been drifting, one destination as good as the next, but then, he's always taken his true home with him. Now, there's no home and nowhere to go.

Nowhere save one place, one debt he owes. But when that's done ... He pushes the thought away.

~*~

The Doctor waits a moment for the vortex opening to fully disperse, then tunes in to the local infonet just to be certain, checks the date. So close to the centre of the universe, everything feels slightly out of tune. But: Yes.

Outside Jack's door, he can hear music - some awful late twenty-first century oldies, by the sound of it - and his trusty sonic tells him there are five people inside.

Of course. Jack would hardly be waiting for him - or if waiting, certainly not putting anything else on hold. An uncomfortable smile forces itself onto his lips. Waiting for the Doctor? May the Void have mercy on those who do.

He lingers at the door for a moment, undecided, then reaches for his wrist again. A quick shift forward, and it's late at night, or early morning perhaps. 

Is Jack even alone now? The Doctor looks at his screwdriver and hesitates, almost not wanting to know.

~*~

"Rise and shine, Jack!"

Jack jerks upright, his paralyser pointed at the Doctor almost before his eyes are open. Then he lets out a relieved breath and sinks back into the cushions, looking up at the Doctor in the dim light from the undarkened bedroom window. He seems to take everything in, everything that's changed since last they'd seen each other: the vest with the sonic screwdriver poking out of a breast pocket, the painted fingernails - nanotranslators embedded, of course -, the silver band around his wrist, above the leather strap of Jack's own Vortex Manipulator. Probably the tired creases around his eyes, his mouth.

The Doctor very carefully doesn't fidget.

"Doctor." Jack smiles suddenly. "How is it, using a 'space hopper'?" Much as he's willing to acknowledge the TARDIS beats any other method of temporal travel, he obviously isn't above throwing the Doctor's contemptuous insult from long ago back at him now.

"Ahem." The Doctor scowls. "Rub it in, why don't you?"

"Always happy to oblige."

When that doesn't draw a response, Jack tilts his head, thoughtfully. "How long's it been for you?"

It's unpleasant and hard, this. He shouldn't have come, not yet. Once he leaves ...

Jack may be forever, but he's not the Doctor's, can't be his lifeline. 

No use having regrets now. He's here. After a moment, the Doctor settles for telling him the truth. "A year and a half, subjective time, just about." He undoes the leather strap, holds the Vortex Manipulator out.

Jack takes it and nods, his smile wistful. "Thanks for that." A brief hesitation. "Do I want to know what kept you?"

The Doctor narrows his eyes at him. "Are you complaining? I came back almost on the spot, didn't I? Same week, even." Or ... he didn't lose time again between earlier and later this evening, did he? "This _is_ the same week, isn't it? If it's not -"

"It is," Jack interrupts his impending ramble, his smile turning fond. "No complaints on that end, Doc." He looks to the side for a moment. "I do appreciate it."

The Doctor nods, grimacing. "Me too. Thanks." It comes out clumsily, awkwardly, as if he'd never thanked anyone before. 

Jack grins and winks at him. "Want to thank me properly?" It's Jack's old, tried-and-true strategy. _When in doubt, flirt. When in danger, seduce._

It's then that the Doctor realises that Jack no more knows what to say, where to go from here, than he does. So this it is, Jack's usual flirtation, quite sincerely meant but not expecting a reply. For all that they've slept together several times, Jack still knows better than to expect anything. Something in the Doctor's gut is tensing uncomfortably at that thought. 

Their few encounters have all been under rather extreme circumstances. The first time after the Year-That-Never-Was, after the Master's death, when the Doctor had turned to Jack in grief and frustration, and Jack had let him pile it all on him. The second, frantic and more than a little insane, after Adelaide Brooke and before he could bring himself to answer the Ood's call. The third in a post-regeneration craze, during those five minutes that turned into two years. The fourth ...

Wait, no, the fourth time he'd already been in this incarnation. And for all that it must have looked the same, new regeneration again and no TARDIS on top, it hadn't really been. The Doctor isn't sure exactly what it was, exactly what's changed, but _something_ has.

Something he's not ready to acknowledge, not quite. But he can't leave it at that either. 

Jack is batting his eyelashes now, playing for time. Well, two can play at that game.

"Hmm," the Doctor says and tilts his head, pretending to consider. "How should I thank you, then?" He lets his gaze glide over Jack, the exposed skin of his upper body, the shape of him under the sheets. On impulse, he meets Jack's gaze and allows a wide, dangerous grin to spread on his face. "Ah, yes. I could let you suck me off. What say you?"

Jack rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh, but beneath the humour there's something burning. His lips come apart a little, and he reaches out, settles a hand on the Doctor's hip. His thumb strokes lightly over the hipbone. When there is no protest, no withdrawal - not this time, the Doctor thinks, not now -, Jack lets out a small, surprised and delighted laugh. "Who am I to turn down such a gracious offer?" And he bends forward, rubbing his cheek against the Doctor's crotch.

After that, everything is easy. Lips and tongue and teeth, and Jack here and now, and all he has to do is feel. He lets himself fall into it for once, the physical pleasure grounding the disorienting eternity of it.

He doesn't let himself feel guilty.

Finally he spills himself down Jack's throat, and the moment ends, all the tension in his body spilling itself as well. He slumps, empty and tired, a hand curled around Jack's neck and the other on Jack's shoulder, and simply holds on for a long moment. Jack holds with him, his mouth warm around the Doctor's now-soft cock, his shoulders steady support for the Doctor's tired slump. His Factness, undeniable and immutable, a calm and safe harbour in the vastness of time.

Then, slowly, the Doctor pulls back. Jack's head turns up, and they look at each other, wordless, unsmiling. 

This is still easy. Smoothly, the Doctor lets himself sink to his own knees. He slides his hand up from Jack's neck and cups his cheek. Jack's lips are wet and glistening. The Doctor leans forward, and their lips meet. 

The Doctor slides his free hand down Jack's chest, under the sheets to his crotch, curls it around Jack's spent cock and elicits a low moan. His fingers gather a few drops of come, and lift them to his mouth. Jack's eyes are wide, almost incredulous as the Doctor deliberately, provocatively licks his fingers. The Doctor isn't ready for this to end. He bends forward a little and licks Jack's earlobe, his hearts clenching, "I suppose I'm going to have to owe you one," he feels more than hears himself breathe into Jack's ear.

He's a coward, after all.

~*~

No more random skipping through the universe after that, not for the next little while. Instead, he goes to all the familiar places. Kembel and Delta Magna and Krillia, Raxacoricofallapatorius and Ruta 3. Even Skaro, past and future. (Not Barcelona; he avoids Barcelona.) Earth, in many places, many times.

He watches himself watch the Kennedy assassination, visits Madame Pompadour's funeral. He watches Leela take down a group of thugs and ignore the Doctor's complaints. In Chiswick, he is particularly careful, and he leaves after only a moment's glimpse of Donna and Wilf. He looks on as Sarah Jane leaves the TARDIS in Aberdeen. In Kyoto in 1336, he watches himself tumble into the TARDIS with Jack and Rose, laughing, and rubs his fingers against his wrist where a leather band isn't.

He never approaches, never interferes. Timelines, he tells himself. Temporal integrity, he tells himself. He only watches for a little, and moves on.

He never seeks out the TARDIS after his own time, never lets himself look for a version of her he could approach.

He's the Doctor. But the Doctor in the TARDIS is someone else now. There is no place to rest.

Only one of them notices him. In Victorian London, Vastra - who apparently has Strax with her now, however that came about - throws him a sharp look from beneath her concealing veil. He shakes his head slightly, and she nods in acknowledgment, drawing away her companions.

~*~

Everything else is temporary, even a Time Lord. Jack Harkness is not.

If there's no home left for the Doctor, there's still this, a safe harbour, a ready port of call. A still point he can't ever lose, even unto the end of the universe itself. No wonder he's drawn back to Jack. No wonder he can't seem to quite let go.

It's why he has to stop.

The Doctor clenches his fingers into a fist against the urge to rub his wrist again. 

Look at all that Jack's already done for him, unbidden. The Doctor is more than a little terrified of just how much Jack might do for him if ever he actually bothered to _ask_. The centre of the universe, at his command. 

(He remembers being a withered old man in a wheelchair, looking at the Master _playing_ with Jack Harkness, and thinking: _He_ isn't afraid. He isn't afraid at all.)

But even that is still an excuse. In the end, everything's an excuse. That's not why it was foolish, that half-promise whispered into Jack's ear. That's not why he has to stop. 

Never mind the universe: the truth is, he can't make Jack his lifeline, can't use him as a crutch. Can't depend on Jack, when Jack can't depend on him in turn.

He won't let himself go back. The truth is simple: Jack deserves better.


End file.
